This week’s readings have been, by far, the most personally disruptive (in the best possible way). They shook the foundations of what I thought I knew about learning: what it is, how it happens, who teaches, and what counts as “real.”
Connectivism: humans, devices, and the anxiety of too much information
It is during this week of learning that I first heard about Connectivism. At its core, Connectivism suggests that learning happens through networks, between people, ideas, and technologies, rather than within the individual alone. I found myself wondering: connected to what? To one another as humans, or to the devices that mediate everything we say, search, ask, and remember? Both forms of connection reshape our interactions and our brains, but not in the same way. One wondering the readings prompted haunted me: the idea that immediate access to limitless information changes how we remember, what we store, and even how (or whether) we form connections in our minds. I feel this shift happening in myself. Nearly 50, I am suddenly at the intersection of wanting to use my devices – because there is too much to know and too little time – and noticing how my capacity to hold ideas in my head sometimes slips away mid-conversation. And yet today, sitting down with a 400-page book can feel impossibly slow.
Then came the point about learning stored outside of humans. At first I resisted: is it still learning if no person is directly involved? But then I looked at my dogs who have, with precision, learned that the sound of my chair moving after hours at the laptop equals “apple and walk.” And of course, organizational systems learn, AI assistants “learn.” So, is the presence of a human necessary, or is learning something broader, something distributed?
And one line hit me harder than I was prepared for:
There is a right answer now that may be wrong tomorrow.
What, then, is worth learning? Down the rabbit hole I went.
Rhizomatic learning: the uncomfortable mirror
David Cormier’s introduction to Rhizomatic learning pushed me even further outside my comfort zone. The principles (embracing uncertainty, communities shaping the curriculum, learners responsible for their own pathways) pulled a visceral reaction out of me. It exposed a deep truth: I tend to believe I have “truly learned” only if the knowledge comes from printed books, credentialed experts, or validated (by credentialed experts) experiments.
The rhizome, with its ability to “grow amid breakage”, feels like a powerful metaphor for today’s world. And yet, acknowledging this requires dismantling beliefs that feel almost like certainties to me. Even the idea that we should not measure learning hit me straight in the marketer part of my brain trained to believe that “what you can’t measure doesn’t exist.”
When community is the curriculum, inclusion is non-negotiable
If, as Cormier argues, the community is the curriculum, then building a totally inclusive community becomes foundational, not decorative. If the community represents both the source and mechanism of learning, then who is included (and who is not) is not a side issue. It is the learning. A fragmented or exclusive community creates fragmented or exclusive knowledge. Which in turn creates exclusionary practices, perpetuated by people who were educated in this manner.
Measuring learning: the tension with my son’s DP experience
Cormier spoke about measuring effort, engagement, connection-making. Meanwhile, at home, we navigate the IBDP world where everything feels the opposite: rigid rubrics for every task, prescribed language, elaborate criteria dictating whether something “counts.” It feels so far from authentic learning. So far from the curiosity-driven, self-directed exploration that all these theories are urging us toward. Watching this tension play out in real time (with my son, with his teachers, with “the system”) makes the question of “what is worth measuring?” painfully alive.
I can feel my own learning shifting. And not in a linear way at all.
Maybe the strongest reaction I had to these new pieces of information was to the realization that my own learning no longer follows any tidy path. Since deciding (at nearly 50) to go back to school in an applied sciences university, I’ve been watching myself learn in ways I never expected:
- I start tasks in the middle.
- I think of the conclusion first and then test if the introduction can catch up.
- I switch mediums constantly to stay engaged.
- I can only listen to videos or podcasts if my hands are busy.
- Sometimes my brain refuses to show up; other times it wakes me at 3 a.m. with ideas.
It’s messy, alive, and fascinating to witness.
But it also comes with an acknowledgment of privilege: I am able to explore learning this way because I already have a diploma in the traditional system, a career that gave me development and stability, a partner who supports me, and (probably most importantly) no pressure right now to learn in a specific direction. Passion can lead.
How many young people in schools today have that luxury?
If anything, this week left me with more questions than answers. But perhaps that is the point. Perhaps the real learning is happening in the discomfort (Dr. Brene Brown was cautioning her students that “if they are not uncomfortable, she was not teaching them …”) somewhere between the linear past and the rhizomatic future, between what I memorized as a student and what I am unlearning now.
(And yes, this is where the brain-explosion emoji belongs.)
__________________________________________
This reflection was shaped by several resources that deeply informed my thinking this week:
- The Rhizomatic Learning materials from Advance HE, especially David Cormier’s video presentation.
- George Siemens’ article, Connectivism: A Learning Theory for the Digital Age (International Journal of Instructional Technology and Distance Learning).
- And, finally, the support of ChatGPT, which helped me synthesise ideas, clarify connections, and articulate the reflections shared above.
Photo by Everest Louis on Unsplash
Connect 